


Long Live the King

by sunkelles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe- Canon Divergence, Animal Abuse, Body Swap, F/F, Femslash, Politics, Sexy Times, Warging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:39:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5341130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Sansa and Joffrey switch bodies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Live the King

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this has been so much fun! This is the first big bang experience that I've actually completed. While it didn't really exceed the word count limit, it did meet it and I'm pretty proud of that. I probably never would have written this one if it weren't for the big bang. 
> 
> Thank you you for creating such a beautiful piece of art to accompany this! She's wonderful and her tumblr is jessica-a-k-a if you'd like to follow her.
> 
> Link to the art http://disregardcanon.tumblr.com/post/134469095488/long-live-the-king

She sees the world in shades of grey with no colors thrown in. She pads down the halls of the castle on gentle, graceful feet. The dull, stone walls seem to stretch for miles, and she walks along them, passing the large boots of gold cloaks and sellswords. She hears the squeaking of a mouse and bounds after it. She plays with it for a few minutes before killing it, as she always does. It’s no fun to kill prey instantly. The fun comes from playing with her prey, watching it tick before she finally puts it out of its memory. After she finally kills it, she clutches the hairy corpse tightly between her teeth.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a tall, male human with elegant clothing and a metal crown upon his head. She jerks her head around to look up at him. He sets the hairs on her back on edge. She doesn’t remember why, but she knows that this figure is bad.

 _Bad, no, escape- get away-_  she thinks, but her body freezes in fear as the hair on her back stands straight on its edges. He taunts her as she tries to back up,  and runs into a wall into instead.

“Who’s a stupid little kitty,” he coos mockingly,  _menacingly_. She lets out a tiny little whine, and he just laughs, a maniacal, sadistic sound.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to do to you, do you?” he asks.

She scratches and claws at the man-  _Joffrey_ \- her mind supplies, but he doesn’t yield. She growls desperately as she bares her claws, but it doesn’t help. He kicks her to the ground and holds her down with his boot. Then, he draws his dagger. Her breath hitches as he runs the steel gently across her fur, increasing the pressure until the dagger draws not only pain, but blood. His smile turns feral as he stabs the knife deeper into her flesh soft flesh, and the blood starts rushing out of her like a river.

She lets out a high-pitched, feline, screech, and keeps screeching as the pain continues. He laughs over her pain, but she screeches and squeals in the hope that someone will hear, hopes that someone will save her.

No one comes for what seems like an eternity, and soon her voice feels like sandstone and sounds groggy and only half there. She feels herself floating and wills herself to stay awake. She doesn’t know much, but she knows that she has to survive.

_Sansa_ , she remembers,  _her name is Sansa_. Sansa awakens, and clutches at her covers to ensure that she’s still in a bed. Her dream was so vivid that it almost seemed real. For a moment, she believed that it was. She takes a deep breath as she opens her eyes. The morning light peeks through her white drapes, and Sansa softly clutches the scarlet bedspread that covers her. Confusion fills her. Sansa has a white bedspread, not a red one. She tries to keep herself calm as she clutches the blanket tightly.

Sansa tries to convince herself that her handmaiden might have changed their bedspread without her noticing. For a moment, she wonders frantically where her husband is, and if his absence is worthy of note. But then she reminds herself that half of the time her husband is awake, and out of the room by the time she wakes up. She tries to steady her sporadic breath.

 _There’s no reason to worry,_  she assures herself. She scans the room to see if anything else has been altered. Sansa knows one thing for certain; these are not the chambers that she shares with her husband. They are far larger. She thinks that they’re nearly twice as large. The chambers are fit for a king. Sansa feels as though she’s going to vomit as the realization hits her.

 _Did he drug me?_  She wonders desperately, as she tries to raise herself off the bed and escape the room. She doesn’t remember anything about the past night, at least not anything but the strange dream. She tries to push herself up off of the bed, but ends up losing her balance. She falls back onto the bed. She pushes herself to a sitting position, and thankfully does not end up losing her balance doing that. Sansa has never been drunk before, but she wonders if this wrongness she feels in her body was brought about by alcohol. She desperately hopes not.

Her body feels strangely heavy, and she looks down at her hands. The fingers seem significantly fatter than they normally do, and not nearly as long. She screams, and the voice that she hears is not her own. It’s a bit too low, a half-grown man’s voice, and she clutches at her chest. She does not feel her own blossoming cleavage, but instead a bare, flat chest. 

She runs to the looking glass, and is startled by the face she sees in her reflection. She sees Joffrey’s face staring back at her. She tries to run her hands through her hair, to prove that it’s still there, that she’s still Sansa, but she cannot find it near the middle of her back, or even by her shoulders. Then she brings her hands straight to her head, and runs her hands over the soft, short hair covering it.

_Alright,_  she thinks, trying to steady her panicked, confused breathing,  _I’m in Joffrey’s body_. Her breathing speeds up again, and she lets out another terrified scream. She’s still not expecting to hear Joffrey’s voice, and it startles her. It startles her more than it should, considering that it’s now her own.

 _I am in Joffrey’s body_ , Sansa thinks again, frantically. She doesn’t even understand how something like this could happen.

 _Yes you do_ , a voice whispers. Her dream rushes back to her. She was a cat- pouncing through the castle grounds after mice. She’s had this dream before, but it never ended the way that it did last night before. Joffrey, Joffrey killed her. Old Nan’s stories of greenseers and skinchangers dance through her head, and suddenly, Sansa has an idea of what happened.

She’s been skinchanging into that cat, and somehow, after Joffrey killed the cat, she stole his body. The idea makes her head hurt. She hears a door open behind her, and turns abruptly around. The servant boy looks as though he’s about to wet his pants.

“Your grace,” the servant says, timidly, “they- the guards found you passed out in the hall. They brought you back to your chambers.”

“Thank you,” she says, in Joffrey’s voice. The servant seems more startled by her courtesy than he would have been had she yelled at him. She tries to pretend that she doesn’t know why the servant reacted the way that he did. She takes a deep breath and tries to steady herself.

The extra weight makes her feel as if she’s floating on a boat on a particularly windy day, but she forces herself to walk around. She needs to adjust to it; she has no idea how long she’ll be stuck in this body. She’ll need to convincingly play the part of Joffrey.

She takes a deep breath and stands up straight. She can do this, at least until she can figure out how to get her body back.

Sansa has survived this long, she can survive a little bit longer.

* * *

 

 **  
** Sansa decides that she should at least try to pass the time. If she doesn't do anything, then she'll worry herself to death. In stressful situations, she has always turned to books. Sansa searches Joffrey's room for the stash of books that she assumes he has. She finally finds his sizable supply stuffed in a far corner. It's impressive, full of the most well-known Westerosi, Valyarian, and Braavosi writers and poets, and none of the newer books have even been opened. It seems typical of Joffrey, to get extravagant gifts he never even looks at.

Sansa chooses a book that she's never read before off of the shelf, and takes it over to Joffrey's bed to read. She quickly looses herself in the sweeping, romantic fiction and she reads and reads until her eyes hurt. She's nearly through a tale about a lady and a dragon when she hears a knocking at the door. She looks briefly up from her book. The same servant sticks his head cautiously into the door. **  
**

“Come in,” she tells him, and he seems confused. She motions with her head, and he enters the room.

“Your grace,” he says, “your mother wishes for you to prepare for lunch with your betrothed.”

“Thank you,” she says, and the slender, squirrelly man looks at her as though she’s grown a second head. He vacates the premise, and Sansa finds herself wondering what Joffrey has done to his servants to make them even more fearful than she’s always been. She rifles through Joffrey’s wardrobe and finds his best looking doublet. Even Joffrey would want to look nice for a luncheon with his betrothed. The fact that Sansa’s cheeks turn pink simply thinking of her has no bearing on this decision. She adjusts the scarlet doublet once more around her neck, and then glances once more in the mirror.

Joffrey has a handsome body. Even though Sansa knows what he is now, she can’t deny that. His golden blonde hair and bright green eyes create a beautiful look along with the crimson fabric. Joffrey is all Lannister, and Sansa wonders how anyone could be blind to that fact. But then again, Sansa was blind to cruelty for months, and that was even more obvious than his ancestry.

She hears a knocking at her door, and Sansa takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself down.

“You can do this,” she tells herself. She tries to soothe her nerves as she walks over to answer the door. She opens the wooden door, and finds that she is now taller than the queen. Cersei is clad in a fine, new gown. It’s Lannister scarlet, with black trim and embroidery. It’s likely worth more than Sansa’s entire wardrobe.

“You look well, mother,” she says, and the words sound foreign in Joffrey’s voice. She mentally scolds herself, because she has no idea how Joffrey speaks to his mother in private. She doubts if it is nearly so formal, or kind. She doubts if Joffrey is ever kind if it is not part of a performance. Cersei sends her a confused look, but seems to write off her son’s odd behavior.

“As do you,” she says. They walk down a few corridors, and Sansa does not dare to speak, fearing that she might out herself. She does not want to give the queen of the Seven Kingdoms any more reason to doubt that she is her son. Eventually, as they turn a corner lit only by a few candles on the wall, Cersei decides that it is time to break the silence. A remote area of the castle is likely the most private space they will ever find.

“The Stark girl seems to have gone mad,” Cersei says, with an airy, uncaring sort of quality to it.

“Really?” Sansa asks, hoping that she doesn’t sound overly interested. It wouldn’t due to have the queen of the Seven Kingdoms wondering why her son has taken a sudden, authentic interest in the girl he loves to torment. They continue to walk down the darkened corridor, part of the castle’s bowels that Sansa would never have dared to tread in her own body.

“Yes,” she says with an almost sadistic smile on her face, “she seems to think that she’s you. Can you imagine it, Sansa Stark as king of the Seven Kingdoms?” The way that she says it makes it seem like she would find that an entertaining joke. Sansa has to stifle her own nervous laughter. Sansa’s never felt more awkward before in her life. She doesn’t feel at home in her own skin, but she supposes that’s because it isn’t her skin. It’s Joffrey’s.

“I can only imagine,” Sansa mutters, and the woman who thinks that Sansa is her son looks at her quizzically. She deems Sansa’s comment unworthy of her worries, though, and carries on quickly as though her son was not acting the slightest bit strange.

“The poor girl is so stupid,” Cersei says, something akin to genuine pity in her tone, “and terribly, terribly naive. The crown would crush her little air-filled head.”

“It’s a good thing I won’t be marrying her,” Sansa says, pulling Joffrey’s lips back into a brilliant smile.

“A good thing indeed,” the queen says. Cersei makes a turn, and they slowly start walking back towards the light. Sansa suspects that they will soon be back near the royal chambers, where she suspects they will be dining with Margaery and probably, much of her entourage of ladies.

“It will only be you, me, your betrothed and her grandmother today,” Cersei says tightly, and Sansa suspects that the woman is not pleased by this. They finish their trek to the gardens, and sit down at the small, wooden table that has been prepared for them. Margaery and Olenna are already waiting for them.

Margaery has her hair done up in an intricate, braided style that fits on her head like a crown, and Sansa’s breath hitches. Margaery Tyrell might be the most beautiful girl in the Seven Kingdoms. Olenna, however, is not. Her splotchy, white and grey hair has been pulled back into a single braid and she hasn’t bothered to even fake a smile. Her saggy skin makes her look even more angry than she probably is. Sansa takes her spot beside Margaery, and Cersei glares at she sits down beside both Olenna and Sansa.

“Isn’t it lovely out today?” Margaery asks, and Sansa murmurs her assent. Then she realizes that that isn’t a very kingly thing to do.

“Why yes, Lady Margaery,” She says, trying to amend her mistake, “the weather is lovely today.”  

“I can feel the autumn winds rolling in,” Olenna grumbles, “it won’t be summer much longer.”

“Grandmother,” Margaery says.

“Those Starks are right about one thing,” She says, sending Cersei a shit-eating grin.

“And what is that?” Cersei asks, thinly veiled irritation and true anger in her tone.

“Winter is coming,” she says, and Sansa laughs. She’s shocked to hear her house words spoken here, and for some reason, it seems a natural reaction. Margaery giggles too, a lilting, musical sound, and Sansa’s heart does a somersault. Apparently, Cersei notices. The woman sends Margaery a thinly veiled glare, and Olenna Tyrell puts on a smile so false Sansa could have seen through it at Winterfell, before she learned how to read people the hard way.

Then, they make more awkward small talk, and Olenna sends toxic insults in all directions. Sansa thinks that the queen of thorns might be too light a nickname. Her thorns are toxic, and if Sansa had not grown a thicker skin, she suspects that they would have broken it.

As they finish up dinner, Margaery Tyrell sends her a smile.

“You seem different today, your grace,” she says. Sansa’s heart stops beating for a moment, certain that she’s been discovered.

“No,” Margaery says, almost soothingly, “it’s a good sort of different.”

“Perhaps you just bring out a different side of me,” Sansa says with an almost cheeky grin. She’s seen the way that Margaery flirts with Joffrey, playing on his ego, and perhaps she can play off of that.

“May we walk together, Lady Margaery?” she asks. She’s unsure if the tremble in her voice is from fear of being discovered or from nerves brought on from talking to Margaery. Cersei sends the both of them a glare.

“Why would you want to do that, your grace?” the queen asks with a saccharine smile. Sansa can’t believe she was ever unable to see through the queen’s façade.

“I would like to speak to my betrothed,” Sansa says. She thinks that Joffrey would have sounded snippier, or perhaps he would have feigned more charm. It would probably have depended on his mood that day.

Joffrey’s mother grits her teeth and glares at her as she says, “of course, your grace.” Sansa knows how proper lords behave towards their betrotheds, so she holds out an arm for Margaery to take. Margaery takes it, almost gladly, and Sansa’s breath hitches. She’s not sure if her feelings for Margaery will make this easier or harder.

They walk to the gardens, and Margaery talks about the weather and the castle and mundanities as Sansa tries to listen attentively. Her heart beats in her chest at a war horse’s speed, and when they finally arrive in the gardens Sansa is almost as frightened as she was when she woke up. She doesn’t think that she can pretend to be Joffrey much longer, much less do it effectively. People are bound to realize that there is something strange about Joffrey acting completely different at the same time Sansa Stark decides that she’s King of the Seven Kingdoms. No one can be that blind.

The rate of her breathing increases, and as they walk through the gardens Sansa feels as though she might suffocate right where she stands.

“Are you alright, your grace?” Margaery asks softly, sending her a concerned look.

“Of course, my lady,” Sansa says, “I’m just feeling a bit under the weather today.”

“At least the weather’s lovely today, though,” Margaery says. She sounds confident, but Sansa can tell that she’s just trying to apply balm to the awkward situation. Sansa understands.

“Yes,” Sansa says, her throat tight, “it is.” Sansa takes Margaery’s hand in hers, and it feels surprisingly small. Sansa had almost forgotten that she had Joffrey-sized hands. They walk for a bit longer, and though Sansa starts to feel more comfortable, she doesn’t know what to say. Margaery has always been kind to her, and she feels like she needs someone who knows who she really is, but she knows that speaking things aloud is dangerous.

There are so many people that she cannot trust, but she wants to believe that Margaery is not one of them. Margaery grasps her hand a little bit tighter, and points to a rose bush on their right. The flowers are yellow with red edges.

“That rose symbolizes friendship falling into love,” Margaery says. Sansa’s breath hitches.

“My mother said that those were the perfect roses for weddings,” Margaery says, “because nobles never love their betrotheds when they wed. But they grow to.” She sends Sansa a soft smile, and Sansa’s heart leaps in her chest.

Margaery’s hair curtains her face in tight, brown ringlets. Sansa gently brushes it out of her face, behind her ear. She knows that Joffrey would never have done something so tender, and she fears that she has given herself away. Margaery sends her a look that’s almost knowing, and Sansa makes an impulsive decision.

“Margaery,” she says, Joffrey’s voice little more than a whisper, “I’m not- I’m not Joffrey.”

Margaery sends her a kind smile and says, “I know.”

“You know?” Sansa asks, her voice trembling so badly that it barely sounds like Joffrey’s.

“Yes, Sansa,” she says, “I’m not blind. Perhaps if you were the only one acting strangely, I could overlook it. But Sansa Stark going mad at the same time, claiming to be Joffrey Baratheon? That isn’t a coincidence.”

“Do you think the others know?” she asks, daring not to think of what they’ll do to her for impersonating the king.

“I think that Cersei suspects,” Margaery admits, “but there isn’t much she can do. You’re the king, Joffrey or not.”

“But I’m not Joffrey,” Sansa says frantically, “I’m not the king.”

“You’ve got his body,” Margaery tells her, “it isn’t like they can prove you aren’t him.”

“You won’t tell anyone,” Sansa asks, “will you?”

“Of course not,” Margaery says with a dazzling smile, “I’d much rather be wed to you.” It feels as if an entire flock of butterflies takes flight inside Sansa’s stomach. They walk through the gardens for the entire afternoon, running beside the rose bushes, giggling like children and laughing while guards trail them from a respectful distance. Being Joffrey provides her a freedom that being Sansa cannot, and she appreciates it.

The sun starts to set, and Margaery decides that it is past time that she returns to her family.

“Can we do this again tomorrow?” Sansa asks.

“Of course,” Margaery says, sending her a smile, “it’s only proper that we get to know each other. We are betrothed, after all.” Margaery’s hair twirls quickly as she leaves, and Sansa wonders if perhaps this is just some strange, wonderful dream. She desperately hopes that it is not.

* * *

 

The days pass, and Sansa keeps pretending to be Joffrey. Every day, the fear of being discovered lessens a little. It is far from being completely gone, but her heart no longer feels like it’s about to burst. She doesn’t feel like she might be discovered for every little thing that she says, so she supposes that is a step in the right direction.

Joffrey’s mother (her mother?) comes to visit her early that morning. She knocks on the door, and Sansa rushes to answer it. She realizes, by the time that she has it open that the real Joffrey would have taken his own sweet time doing that. She doesn’t think that she’ll ever be able to perfectly mirror his mannerisms. Sansa doubts if she’d want to.

“Hello, mother,” she says. Sansa does not even have a doublet on yet, and she feels horribly naked, exposed. She’s still not comfortable with her flat, muscled chest. Everything about this body feels wrong.

“I spoke to Sansa Stark yesterday,” Cersei says, “and I learned some interesting things.” A chill passes through her, but Sansa tells herself to stay calm. Just because her chest is exposed, that does not mean her identity is.

“Like what, mother?” she asks.

“You aren’t Joff,” Cersei says, simply.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sansa says. Cersei glares at her. It’s a harsh, cold glare that would have withered Sansa only a few months ago. Today, she knows that she has the higher ground.

“Mother,” she says, and she thinks that she sounds genuinely concerned, “are you well?”

“You aren’t my son,” Cersei declares.

“Mother,” Sansa says, “you sound a little… unsound.”

“Somehow,” Cersei says, “you stole away my son’s body.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sansa says emphatically. She doesn’t know what Joffrey would say in this situation, or how he would say it. She’s too afraid to put much thought into it.

“I’ll prove that you aren’t my son,” Cersei says, a mad, maniacal gleam in her eye, “and after that, I’ll make you pay.”

“Mother-” Sansa says, but Cersei Lannister has turned away from her before she can finish her sentence. Her blonde hair flows behind her like a lion’s mane, and Sansa’s breath hitches in her throat. She’s once again afraid of Cersei Lannister.

She sends a servant boy to ask Margaery to meet her in the gardens.

“Your grace,” Margaery says, sending her a smile and holding out her hand for Sansa to kiss. Sansa does so quickly and in a perfunctory fashion, which puts a worried look on Margaery’s face.

“Sansa,” She says softly, “is there something wrong?” Sansa glances around, and sees that the guards are still far enough away that they will not hear their lowered speech.

“Cersei knows,” Sansa says quickly and fearfully, “Cersei knows and I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll send her to Casterly Rock,” Margaery says, as though it’s the most obvious solution in the world.

“How?” Sansa asks frantically, “how will we just send her away.” Cersei is the queen, and Sansa’s just Sansa, just a little dove like Cersei always said.

“You’re the king, Sansa,” Margaery says, “you can do whatever you like.”

“Cersei’s the queen regent,” Sansa says, “I haven’t got that sort of power until we wed.”

“Do you honestly think that anyone will believe Cersei over you?” Margaery asks, raising her brown eyebrow, “especially when she’s spouting nonsense about skinchanging witches and Sansa Stark?”

“But it’s the truth,” Sansa says.

“It doesn’t matter,” Margaery says, “you’re the king, and unless she can prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt, Cersei will just be your crazy mother. The people will see it as your civic duty to make sure that she is safe and out of the way.”

“Do you really think that I have that sort of power?” Sansa asks softly, fearfully. She’s been so powerless for so long; the thought of having the power to send Cersei away is almost intoxicating.

“Joffrey had the power to kill one of the highest lords in the land,” Margaery says, and Sansa shivers, “and have his daughter abused before all of court. Joffrey certainly has the power to send his own mother away.” No matter how many times Sansa reminds herself that she is Joffrey, that all of his power is now hers, she never quite gets used to it. She squeezes Margaery’s hand.

“We can do this,” Sansa says, and Margaery squeezes right back.

* * *

 

Sansa tries to steady her breathing as she marches over to Cersei’s chambers. The door, surprisingly, is wide open. Sansa decides that she ought to just enter. She feigns confidence and nonchalance as she waltzes into Cersei’s chambers.

“I think that after the wedding,” Sansa says, remembering something that Margaery had suggested a few days ago, “you should go to Casterly Rock.”

“You’ll send me away,” Cersei says, a mad sort of glimmer appearing in her eyes, “but you can’t. You aren’t my son.” She grabs Sansa by the shoulders, digging her fingernails into her soft flesh, “you aren’t my king.”

“Or maybe earlier,” she says, “oh mother, I’d hoped that we could wait until after the wedding-”

“Shut up,” Cersei demands, “shut the fuck up-”

“Mother-” Sansa says, but the guards around them close in on them before she can say anything else.

“Mother-” She says, but the guards around them close in on them before she can say anything else.

“Your grace,” the guard says, but he says it to her, to Sansa, “what should I do about your mother?” This guard, at least, believes her over Cersei. She almost lets out a sigh of relief.

“Help her prepare her things for her journey,” she says, “but be gentle. She is my mother still.” The knight nods his head in understanding, and Sansa feels something like electricity course through her veins.

Margaery’s right; they can make this work. She, Sansa, can pretend to be Joffrey, and she can steal the realm right from underneath the Lannisters. They can rule the kingdom, and most of all, they can be together and safe. That’s the only part that Sansa finds herself caring about.

* * *

 

 **  
**The wedding comes to pass, and Sansa finds that she means the words the second time that she says them. She desperately wants to be married to Margaery, even if she has to do so under false pretenses. **  
**

Sansa has outgrown much of her love of frivolous things, and ensures that the spending for the royal wedding remains in an almost reasonable range. They coat the small, familial sept where they wed in Baratheon yellow and black, daring anyone to question the legitimacy of any of it.

The septon proceeds over the short, intimate service, and then Sansa’s breath hitches in excitement when the ceremony gets to the most important part. Sansa clutches the bright yellow bride’s cloak, and then drapes it triumphantly around her new wife.

They proceed to the great hall after the ceremony, and it is considerably less small and intimate. Olenna insisted on inviting half of the Reach, and Cersei had to invite certain people to maintain appearances. All that Sansa knows is that this probably drained the Crown’s assets dry. She was never as good with keeping books as her sister, but she knows that things like this cost large amounts of gold.

It’s a good thing that the Lannisters are rolling in it. The Rains of Castamere, Seasons of My Love, and Alysanne ring through the halls as the party goers dance and dance to their heart’s content. The wall of the hall are coated not only in black and yellow, but in Tyrell green and gold as well.

It looks tacky, almost garish. Sansa would never have approved of it when she was younger. Now it’s a symbol of houses coming together, and Sansa can’t be against that. Even if Joffrey is solely a Lannister, and she’s a Stark deep in her heart, in all the ways that matter. But in the eyes of everyone else, this marriage will be a  union between houses Baratheon and Tyrell, and she wants it to look like that. All she wants is to keep the people and her bride happy.

Bride, wife, she still hasn’t gotten used to the idea of marrying a woman, of being, for all intents and purposes, a man,  but she certainly wants to be married to Margaery. Since Robb’s death, there’s never been anything that she’s wanted more.

Tyrion Lannister, her former husband staggers over to her about halfway through the feast.

“Hello, uncle,” she says, trying to put as much disdain in her voice as Joffrey would have. She was unhappily married to the man, but she can’t manage even a third of the poison that Joffrey could.

“Your grace,” he says. Sansa doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything at all. Tyrion takes this as an opportunity to continue talking.

“I gave my wife the loveliest dress for the evening,” Tyrion says, sending her a knowing smile, “but she seemed to think that you’ve snatched up her body and her bride.” Sansa knows her husband, at least well enough to know that tone of voice. He knows that she is Sansa as well as Cersei did. He’s just better at hiding it.

“They say that she’s mad,” Sansa says in a low tone of voice.

“Perhaps she is,” Tyrion says, and then he sends her a self-deprecating smile.

“And perhaps I am an unsatisfying husband, but maybe I could make a better Hand,” he says. There’s a bit of a bite to his words, but they’re wise. He’s an ambitious man, and she can see the play that he’s making here.

“Perhaps when there is an opening, uncle,” Sansa says, “we can discuss it.” Tyrion sends her a look half full of awe and half full of loathing.

“Of course, your grace,” he says. The rest of the feast passes uneventfully, and soon enough the drunken revellers are chanting for the bedding. The men grab hold of Margaery, and hoist her on their shoulders as the women usher Sansa towards her chambers. This is not the way that a young Sansa imagined her wedding would be, but it is so much better than the first one she got.

The men shove Margaery, half naked now, into the room and the ladies giggle as they push Sansa in after her.

“Hello, husband,” Margaery says, and Sansa turns red. She never thought that she’d be someone’s husband. Sansa bites her lip as she sits down on the bed, naked as the day she was born. Of course, her body isn’t at all like the one she had when she came into the world. This one has a few different parts, and the one between her legs is reacting quite strongly to the way that Margaery looks as she slowly removes her gown.

“Do you like the view?” Margaery asks with a tiny little smirk. Sansa feels her face flush, and turns away.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Margaery says, placing a hand under Sansa’s chin and looking deep into her eyes.

“We’re wed now,” she says, “you can look all you like.”

“Did Renly?” Sansa asks, and she’s suddenly jealous. She doesn’t want to imagine anyone other than herself seeing Margaery like this.

“No,” Margaery tells her with a hint of a smile, “Renly was too busy looking at my brother.”

“Wait, Loras?” Sansa asks, “Loras and Renly were-”

“Yes,” Margaery says, “it was highly scandalous. A bit like us, really.”

“If I wouldn’t have swapped bodies with Joffrey,” Sansa says tentatively, “would you have still wanted- wanted this- with me?”

“Sweetling,” Margaery says as she sits down on her knees, dangerously close to her erection, ““I wish that we could have done this when you had your body. I much prefered yours to this one.”

Margaery pushes Sansa back onto the mattress, and bites her lip. Sansa looks up at her, Margaery’s hair falling around her face like rain. She looks gorgeous, entrancing even. Sansa knows what her body wants, and she doesn’t think that she’ll ever want anyone else.

“Kiss me,” Sansa whispers.

“As my king commands,” Margaery drawls, and Sansa almost giggles before Margaery’s lips meet her own. They move in beautiful harmony, and soon Margaery guides Sansa’s cock deep within her wet slit over Sansa’s cock. Sansa lets out a moan into the other girl’s mouth as she thrusts her hips harder into the other girl.

“This will do, though,” Margaery says as leans in to kiss her. The response in Sansa’s crotch is immediate and obvious, and she kisses her wife solidly on the mouth.

 _Wife_ , she thinks giddily, _Margaery’s my wife_. Sansa could really get used to that.

* * *

 

 

Sansa sits, almost comfortably upon the Iron Throne. The ladies of the court mill about in their vibrant silk dresses and extravagant hair styles as dirty, sad looking smallfolk petition their problems before her. She tries to make sure that every man, woman and child leaves with their problems solved, but it’s not always easy. There are far more smallfolk in King’s Landing than there are nobles.

After the woman with the matted hair and the missing teeth leaves the center of the floor, she’s replaced by a girl with flowing, auburn hair and bright blue eyes. It strikes Sansa that the face is her own.

“Your grace,” she says, her voice steely, mocking, “I don’t think that throne belongs to you.” Sansa doesn’t think that she could speak if she tried. She sends a frightened look over to the guards, but they’re just laughing. The gold cloaks are laughing, and Sansa almost allows herself to feel relieved.

She looks back to where her body stood, but she’s suddenly gone. Standing in the place of her body is Joffrey’s body, smirking at her and laughing harshly in turn. Sansa feels hair curtaining her face, and grabs a lock, bringing it quickly towards her face to examine.

It’s auburn and soft, and it’s the same hair that she had before she stole Joffrey’s body. Adrenaline courses through her veins. She looks to Joffrey again, and notices that he isn’t alone. Margaery has her arms wrapped around Joffrey and is smiling at him with a look of love and longing and Sansa’s blood turns cold. Joffrey kisses her passionately on the lips, but breaks it soon enough to come over to Sansa.

She’s frozen to the Iron Throne as he swaggers over, clad in finery and a devious smirk, like the one he wore when he killed her as a cat. He has murder in his eyes again now, and Sansa feels her blood turn cold.

“I’ll teach you to steal my throne,” he says, in his own voice now, “to steal my life-” Sansa tries to back up into the throne, and ends up cutting her back on the blunt knives. He closes in on her, and soon he’s right in front of the throne.

“I will make you pay,” he hisses, glaring at her and grabbing her harshly by the throat. She lets out a high-pitched, feminine scream as the scene changes. Suddenly, Sansa is being escorted to the steps of Great Sept of Baelor. A cold, terrified feeling falls over her as she remembers the last time that she was here. This is where they took off her father’s head.

Sansa screams and flails about in the arms of the gold cloaks, but she cannot escape. She spots the headsman and then she spots Ice. She can see Joffrey grinning at her, and Margaery draping herself around him. And she sees Cersei glaring at her with eyes that say she deserves what she’s getting. The guards force her to her knees, and the headsman closes the gap between them.

He does not say anything, does not afford her last words or courtesies the way that her father would have.

“Please,” she says, “Margaery, please.” But her wife says nothing, and Sansa can hear the sword cut through the air. She wonders, idly, what it will feel like as it slices through her neck.

Sansa screams as she wakes. She clutches the covers, and clutches her wife as she slowly realizes that the entire scene was a dream. Margaery awakens, and she sends Sansa a concerned look.

“Sansa,” she says, pulling the girl into a hug, “Sansa, are you alright?”

“I had a nightmare,” she says softly. She realizes the moment that she says it that it sounds ridiculous. Sansa can barely see Margaery in the darkness, but she has a concerned look written clearly across her face.

“It’s alright,” Margaery says in a soothing voice, “you’re safe now.” But the dream rests in the forefront of her mind, the dream where Sansa lost this body, her power, and even Margaery, and she isn’t so sure.

“I dreamt that Joffrey got his body back,” Sansa says, her voice barely above a whisper, “and that they had me executed.” She does not mention that Margaery went back to Joffrey, and she doesn’t think that she ever should.

“You’ve still got his body,” Margaery says, “no one can have you executed.” Margaery cups her cheek softly, and presses a kiss to her lips.

“Marg-”

“You’re alright, sweet,” she says, and Sansa wants to believe it. But she’s still so frightened that she doesn’t think she can. Sansa sits up on the large, feather bed and cradles her head in her hands.

“What if they find out that I’m not him?” Sansa asks, her voice cracking with the grief and horror of it all. Margaery sits up beside her, and wraps her arm around her in a small embrace.

“How could they?” Margaery asks softly, soothingly, “you’ve been in his body for months and no one but me, Cersei and Tyrion has figured it out. Not even lord Tywin suspects!”

“But if he found out that I impersonated the king,” Sansa says, “that’s a felony. That’s the sort of thing they take your head off for or- or”

“You are the king,” Margaery tells her, her voice firm and unyielding, “totally, by all rights. There’s no Cersei to stand in your way, Tyrion thinks you a better king anyways, and Lord Tywin seems to think that Joffrey simply matured.”

“Marg-”

“You have the unyielding support of House Tyrell,” Margaery promises, placing a soft, comforting hand on Sansa’s cheek.

“Marg,” Sansa says, her voice cracking, “I-I’m-”

“You are safe, Sansa,” Margaery asserts, sending Sansa a soft, reassuring smile.

“No, Margaery,” Sansa says, “I’m not- I can’t be.” No matter how many times she signs her name Joffrey Baratheon I, she’ll always be Sansa Stark. And being Sansa Stark has been a dangerous thing for both her and Joffrey as of late.

“Go see him,” Margaery tells her.

“What?” Sansa asks.

“Joffrey,” Margaery says, “Or Sansa. Whatever you’d prefer to call him.”

“Marg,” Sansa says, “I don’t think that I can.”

“It will give you some semblance of closure,” she says, “of safety.”

“I don’t know,” Sansa says, but Margaery rolls her over and crawls on top of her.

“Give it a try,” she says, placing a kiss to Sansa’s jaw. Sansa thinks about it for a moment, but soon enough she’s thinking a lot more about Margaery than anything else.

“I think that I will go to see him,” Sansa says.

“But Marg?” she asks.

“Yes Sansa?” her wife asks.

“I,” she says, “I don’t think that he should stay here.” She pauses a moment before she works up the courage to add, ““I think that we should send him to Casterly Rock as well.”

Her wife sends her a sly grin, and says, “I like the way that you think.” Sansa thought of it less as a genius, political move and more as self preservation, but she does not challenge her wife’s view. She likes it when Margaery smiles that way at her, even if that’s the way that’s the way that she looked at Joffrey in Sansa’s dream.

She takes a deep breath, and opens the door to her former chambers. She has never really seen herself, or her body, at least. She’s seen her reflection in puddles and in the cloudy looking glass her parents gave her for her ninth name day, but it’s always been hazy or incomplete. She doubts if she would have looked quite the same way in her body that Joffrey does, though. He looks an absolute wreck. He clearly has no idea how to care for the long, russet hair and has not let his handmaidens assist him. The hair has become a bramble bush upon his head, and he has curled up in a small, angry ball on top of the bed. He has not changed dresses in a few days if the angry looking rips and tears indicate anything, as well as the dirt and stains she thinks might be blood.

“Sansa,” she says in his voice, and he lifts his head from its cradle on top of his two legs.

“ _You_ ,” he hisses, in her voice. Her own river blue eyes stare back icily at her as he rises from the bed.

“Sansa,” she says, “I think that you are confused.” He lunges towards her and digs his long, unkempt fingernails into her doublet, nearly tearing the soft fabric.

“You stole my life from me,” he says, anger and grief and frustration flooding into his words. Joffrey Baratheon is a boy who has never been in a position of weakness, and he’s terrified now. He’s terrified, and has no idea how to navigate his landscape. This time, Joffrey is at her mercy. She almost feels sorry for him.

“Sansa,” she says, and she has to remember the story she and Margaery had prepared, “they said that you had gone mad, but I almost didn’t believe it.”

“I am Joffrey Baratheon,” he growls, and she wonders if she ever sounded this angry, if her voice ever went so low when she was using it, “and you are a pretender-”

“You are Sansa Lannister,” she says, though the words feel like bile on her tongue, “wed to my uncle a few months ago. You are the daughter of the traitor, Ned Stark.”

“No,” he growls, “you- you can’t do this to me!” She places an almost soothing hand over his smaller one. She’d almost forgotten how long and slender her fingers were.

“You’re going to Casterly Rock to recover,” he says, “clearly, some sort of mental trauma has brought on this madness.”

“I’m not ill,” he asserts, turning to the guards, “I- I’m the king. I’m in the wrong body. I’m not Sansa bloody Stark.” The guard looks completely unfazed.

“I’m not,” he says, tears breaking through her eyes, “I’m not her.”

“I’m Joffrey,” he says softly, the voice cracking on the words.

Sansa turns to her guards, and says, “Get her ready.” The gold cloak nods her way. Sansa turns away from the man inside her body.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me!” he yells. The words sound as though they’ve come from the depths of his soul. Sansa doesn’t think that she ever shouted that loudly when she had that voice.

“I’m the king!” he shouts, her own voice ringing in her ears. They were Joffrey’s last resort, but they won’t do him any good. Sansa is the king now, and she will send him far away. She won’t let her dream come true, no matter the cost.

She lets the door close behind her, and wonders if perhaps what she’s doing isn’t as bad as what Joffrey did.

* * *

 

 

Months pass, and all of the threats to Sansa’s position disappear. Then, Margaery gives her the most exciting possible news.

“Sansa,” Margaery says, “we’re going to have a baby.”

“Do you think,” Sansa says softly, “do you think that we could give it a Stark name?”

“Sansa,” she says, “you know that we can’t do that. Joffrey has no reason to name his child after a Stark-”

“But what about Catelyn,” Sansa says, and her voice cracks on the name. She’s lost her entire family, and never been properly allowed to mourn them. Now she knows that she can’t even honor them. The tears are prickling at her eyelashes, threatening to fall, but she turns away from her wife. She’s not ready for the other woman to see her cry.

“Sansa,” she says, “you know as well as I do that we can’t do that. The baby needs a Baratheon name, or perhaps a Lannister one.” Sansa doesn’t say anything as Margaery gives her speech about the political value of names.

“Perhaps Joanna for a girl,” Margaery says lightly, almost blithely, “it’s a lovely, Lannister name and it would please lord Tywin.”

For all intents and purposes, Sansa is the king of the Seven Kingdoms. But it’s things like this, like the fact that she cannot name her own children after her dead loved ones that remind Sansa that no matter how often she plays the king, she isn’t truly. She rules through Joffrey’s body and titles, and if she were ever to lose those things, she’d lose all of her power along with it. She wonders what Margaery would do if that were the case. She remembers the image from her dream, and pushes it aside.

Joffrey Baratheon is no threat to her anymore.

“Sansa?” Margaery asks, pulling her out of her thoughts, “what do you think?”

“No,” Sansa says, taking a stand in her mind, “I can’t- I won’t name my child after a Lannister.” Margaery sends her a quizzical look, but decides against arguing the point.

“Alright,” she says, “that leaves Baratheon and Tyrell names.”

“What about Robert?” Sansa asks.

“Robert?” Margaery asks, “why would you ever want to name the babe after him?”

“Then we could call him Robb,” Sansa says with a sad, bitter sort of smile. She doesn’t know what sort of a king Robb was and would have been, but she knows that he would have been better than Joffrey. She thinks that he would have been better than her, too.

“Sansa-” Margaery starts to say, but Sansa cuts her off.

“What good is being king if I can’t even name my children what I want?” Sansa asks. Margaery sends her a sympathetic look.

“Tell me about your family,” she says.

“Why?” Sansa asks. Margaery already knows what happened to them. Why should Sansa relive the horror in order to rehash that?

“It isn’t healthy to bottle up all of your emotions,” Margaery says, and she sounds as though she speaks from experience.

Suddenly, Sansa’s telling stories about Winterfell.

Everything from the time that Robb and Jon scarred them in the crypts to her mother brushing her hair to Arya and Bran pelting her with snowballs. She tells her of giggling with Jeyne Poole over village boys and about how she carried Rickon around like a doll for a solid month. She tells her about what a fine lord her father was and why he always performed his own executions.

“Northerners believe that the person who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” Sansa says, and even as she says the words she realizes how much she misses the North. She misses her culture and the cold and Winterfell, but most of all, she misses her family.

“I never realized how lucky I had it,” Sansa says, “because I was too busy looking forward to traveling South and becoming a great lady.” Margaery actually laughs at that, hearty sounding laughter straight from her belly.

“I bet you never dreamt you would become the king,” Margaery says with a grin.

“No,” Sansa says, wiping away the last of her tears and sending Margaery a ghost of a smile, “and I never thought that I’d get to wed a lovely lady either.”

“Somehow you got very lucky,” Margaery says with an arrogance so thick Sansa’s sure it’s feigned. She thinks about it for a moment, and decides that Margaery’s not entirely wrong. She’s had a lot of shitty luck in her life, but switching bodies with Joffrey and wedding Margaery are among the greatest things that ever happened to her. She grabs her wife’s hand, and they sit in silence for a few minutes.

“On the topic of names,” Margaery says softly, with the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Alright,” Sansa agrees, though she’s not particularly happy about it, “no Stark or Tully names. But no Lannister names either.”

Margaery finds a book with the family tree of House Baratheon. The book is a deep black leather, with beautiful, golden writing and a stag on the front. She keeps digging, and eventually finds another with the family tree of House Tyrell.  It’s a soft, grassy green with a swirling, golden rose drawn on the front. Sansa takes a deep breath, and tries to remind herself that the babe must have a name, and it can’t be one she would really want. There must be a name that Sansa likes within one of the two.

“Garret Tyrell,” Margaery says, “wed Anya Tarley. The two had Luthor, Gormon, Garth, and Moryn Tyrell.”

“Anya?” Sansa asks, her heart stopping in her chest.

“Yes,” Margaery says, sounding a bit concerned about her wife’s behavior, “my great grandmother’s name was Anya.” She doesn’t seem to understand why in the world this would be important.

“If the babe is a girl,” Sansa says, softly , “I’d like to name her Anya.” Margaery’s face softens, and Sansa suspects that she knows the reason.

“Anya Baratheon sounds a lovely name,” she says, “now we just need to find a name for a boy. Preferably a Baratheon name.”

They start flipping through the old, tattered pages of the Baratheon book, starting with the most recent page.

Margaery says, “I suppose that we wouldn’t want to name the babe Stannis, and Renly is probably off the table as well.” Sansa sends her a ghost of a grin. Margaery always knows how to make her smile, even when she feels terrible.

“Ormund Baratheon wed Rhaelle Targaryen. The two had Steffon, and Shireen Baratheon.” Sansa shakes her head, and then Margaery goes further up the family tree.

“Paxton Baratheon wed Alysanne Tarth. The two had Ormund, Yorrick and Robert Baratheon.” Sansa shakes her head again, because they’ve already decided that Robert is not an option and all of the rest of the boys’ names sounded hideous.

“Stannis Baratheon wed Leonette Penrose and had Paxton, Edric and Jon Baratheon.”

“Either Edric or Jon,” Sansa says firmly.

“Sansa,” Margaery tells her, “we couldn’t call an Edric Ned.” Sansa wants to cry, but she fakes a smile instead. Margaery can see right through her facade.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” she tells her, sounding completely sincere.

“It’s alright,” she says, “Jon will work, right?”

“Yes,” Margaery says, “I think that Jon will. It will increase our ties with the Vale, and it’s a common enough name there’s no way anyone make the connection.” Sansa breaths a sigh of relief and she squeezes her wife’s hand. She’ll have a daughter named Anya and a son named Jon. It isn’t the perfect way to honor them, but it’s the best that she can manage. Jon and Anya Baratheon, she supposes that it’s only fair. She was never good enough for either of them, at least she can do her best by them in this one, small way.

Meetings of the small council are long, boring, and unpleasant. The old Joffrey, the one that wasn’t Sansa masquerading around in his body, would never have attended his own meetings. The new Joffrey, the one that is really Sansa Stark, forces herself to attend every single meeting even though she abhors them.

“Roose Bolton holds Winterfell,” Tywin says, “and will hopefully levy the rest of Stark’s old bannermen to our cause. Away from Stannis.”

“Roose Bolton?” Sansa asks, knowing full well the answer to her own question, “wasn’t he a Stark bannerman?”

“Yes,” Tywin says, “but we promised him the position of Warden of the North-”

“For betraying the Starks?” Sansa asks, hoping that the sheer rage she feels doesn’t seep into her words. No matter what, she doesn’t want to ally with people that betrayed her family. She doesn’t think she could stomach it.

“Of course, your grace,” Lord Tywin says, though he sounds a bit more like he’s talking to a small child than to his king, “it was part of the agreement made before the Red Wedding.” Sansa has heard of he Red Weddig. She knows that it’s where her mother and brother died, but she doesn’t know the gritty, morbid details. She’s not sure that she wants them.

“The Boltons betrayed the Starks,” Sansa says firmly, “how do we know that they won’t turn on us?” She hopes that she sounds sensible, and unbiased, because she doesn’t feel that way at all right now.

“Roose Bolton is Warden of the North, with a betrothal for his son to Arya Stark,” Pycelle says, “how much higher could he aim?” Sansa’s blood goes cold.

“I agree with His Grace,” Tyrion says, “though I don’t think we should back out of our deal altogether. We need to keep a close eye on the Boltons.”

“How could he have a betrothal to Arya Stark,” she says, “we don’t have Arya Stark.” There’s a hint of doubt in the back of her mind, hope that her sister might be alive but fear that they’ll use her as a pawn. She’s not sure which feeling is stronger.

“Of course not,” Tywin says dismissively, “the girl is fake, but the power the marriage will have is real. If the people think the girl is Arya Stark, then she is.” Sansa lets out a breath that she thinks is relieved.

“I still don’t think that we should ally with the Boltons,” Sansa says firmly. These men should listen to her. She’s king of the Seven Kingdoms, that should count for something.

“We already have, your grace,” Tywin grits out, “unless, you’d prefer we have no allies in the North.” In many ways, she would prefer that. There’s still a part of her that wants the see the Lannisters fail. If she weren’t their king now, she would still be actively rooting against the Lannisters.

“They aren’t trustworthy,” she says. She doesn’t trust the Boltons, and she doesn’t think that anyone should. She’s heard enough stories about Roose’s bastard to give her nightmares for years.

“There is not a trustworthy house in the realm, your grace,” Tywin says, “we simply have to ensure that they remain loyal to the crown.”

“I will not maintain a bargain with the Boltons,” Sansa asserts. She sounds surprisingly fierce and sure of herself when speaking in Joffrey’s voice.

“I am your Hand, your grace,” Tywin says, icily, “and I am advising you to maintain your alliance with the Boltons. It is the only way to ensure our hold over the North. But if you would like to burn your legacy to the ground and forfeit the crown to Stannis, be my guest. But you will do it without House Lannister.” She glares, but she says nothing. She is not as well-versed in military politics as her brother was, but she understands that without the support of House Lannister she cannot hold the throne.

“Thank you, grandfather,” she says between gritted teeth, “I suppose we will have to make do with the Boltons.”

Sansa holds her small daughter in her arms. She looks every bit a Tyrell, except for the bright blue eyes staring back at her that Sansa hopes will turn brown with time. Her daughter came into the world kicking and screaming, just like Catelyn always said that Arya did. Sansa supposes that it’s appropriate. Once she cradles her infant daughter in her arms the girl settles down.   
  


A new, protective and joyful feeling awakens inside of Sansa as she gazes down at her daughter. The child is not of her body, not of her blood, but she is hers in all the ways that matter. Anya is the child of her wife, and Sansa will raise her with as much love as any person can give a child. That is all that matters.

“Anya,” she says, softly cradling her daughter in her arms.

“She’s wonderful,” Sansa says, staring down at her small child.

“She is,” Margaery says, “but we’ll need to try again.” Sansa sighs, but she knows that her wife is right. She wants a daughter, but she  _needs_  a son. Princess Anya Baratheon will grow up loved, wealthy, and royal, but she will not grow up heir.

* * *

 

Seventeen months later, another baby is born to the royal couple. Jon Baratheon comes silently into the world, as quietly as his sister came loudly. He has a pinched, pink face and no hair at all. Sansa hopes to all the gods that it comes in chocolate brown, like Margaery’s. She doesn’t know if she will get lucky twice, though. She might eventually end up with a child that looks back at her with Joffrey’s eyes, Joffrey’s hair, and Joffrey’s face. She prays to whatever gods might exist that she never gets one with a soul as sadistic and dirty.

Sansa runs a soft, comforting hand over baby Jon’s head. She won’t let him become like Joffrey, not if she has any say in anything. She’s the king of the Seven Kingdoms. She should at least be able to prevent her son from becoming a monster.

Sansa and Margaery (her wife, her queen, her everything) present their son to the people of King’s Landing a few weeks later. Sansa almost feels comfortable, content. Her paranoia about the possibility of being found out has started to fade. Cersei and Joffrey are at Casterly Rock, the Realm is relatively secure, and Sansa has an heir. She hasn’t felt this safe since she left Winterfell.

She can never have her family again, or her name, or her body, but she supposes this is the second best thing. She’s rid of Joffrey, and is the most powerful person in the land. She has a wonderful wife, and two children that she adores. Jon babbles a little, and the drool drips down his chin. Sansa wonders how people look at babies and see future kings and queens, lords and ladies. She only sees her son.

“Come on, your grace,” Margaery says, playfully, “your people await.” Sansa laughs a bit at that, and she and Margaery walk out onto the balcony. She waves to the cheering small folk as her wife cradles the baby.

Margaery holds their son,  _their heir_  in her arms as the smallfolk scream and cheer. The applause swells into a wall of beautiful, enthusiastic praise and Sansa holds her hands up in the air. Margaery smiles at her, and smiles at their babe as the world screams for them.

 _This_ -, Sansa thinks dizzily, _this is what victory feels like._


End file.
